


mess is mine

by LavendelQueer



Series: There Is a Flag, There Is No Wind [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunk confessions, M/M, i don't trust bioware with their own characters, really bad drunk confessions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7225618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavendelQueer/pseuds/LavendelQueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is flame, and Petyr melts before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mess is mine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and I realized it's really applying to my own "lover" situation right now so here's to optimism that maybe things will work out for me as well as it will for them. (spoiler alert: probably not lmao) also probably not grammatically correct but i don't care anymore

Dorian is flame, blistering and all consuming, sparking on his skin and burrowing into his marrow.

 

His mustache scratches at his skin when he sucks a wine-flavored hickey onto his jugular. Petyr bites down on a moan, but he knows Dorian can feel it in his lips because he responds in kind that echoes in his jaw. “Fuck.” He feels more than hears the word being traced across his skin. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

 

“You ok?” Petyr knows he isn’t in his right mind, can feel the tremors in his usually steady hands, can smell the wine mixed with fear-sweat. He wants to give him an out before he hurts him, because he’s the type of man to take a “not now” as a “no,” and if it wasn't for Dorian being in this state he would be much more involved in the marking of skin.

 

Dorian’s answer of, “Fucking perfect,” is slurred into his pectoral and Petyr takes his slip as an opening, pulling him back up by the shoulders and taking a step away. He appears shocked that he’s not rubbing up against warm skin anymore, as his eyes are too blurry to actually see where he is.

 

“Dorian.” It’s the firm, commanding tone he uses when getting his advisors to shut up. “Dorian can you see me right now?” Dorian makes a small grunt in response and falls forward, off-balance and limp with liquor.

 

“Dorian, do you know who I am?” A small, pathetic little laugh inches the ball of panic closer to Petyr’s heart. “Dorian?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea my good, Ser.” Dorian raises his head, but his eyes are still unseeing as they try and focus, but his diction is surprisingly together for someone who is quite a few sheets to the wind. “I just know you look and sound enough like him that, quite frankly, I don’t give a damn.” The ball starts nudging his heart, dislodging it and pushing it into his ribcage.

 

“Him who?” Petyr shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t he really shouldn’t and he doesn’t want to know the answer because as much as he has healed there are still some things-

 

“The bloody fucking, barbarian.” His heart stops. “You have the hair, same general shape, probably eyes if I could tell right now, and the voice,” It beats triple time. “Is fucking spot on. So you see my dear, I also don’t particularly care who you are, because I am a pathetic, worthless snake who gets hammered and shoves my tongue down the throats of men who faintly resemble an object of my misguided affections.” He says it like it’s one of his magical theories, a fact easily explained and tossed aside because- “ _no one here even knows what I’m talking about. Southerners, honestly_.” -and it stings behind Petyr’s eyes hard enough that he has to remind himself not to shove him away.

 

“Oh.” The music from the tavern registers once more through the cracks in the shutters. The rough scrape of the wall against his shoulder and a pain in his hip filters through and he can hear the sounds of Skyhold at night. “Oh.” He sees a bench over the gilded buckles on Dorian’s left shoulder and he nudges him to that, holding him steady as he stumbles until he can safely collapse against the stone wall of the Quartermaster’s office. When Petyr steps back he can feel the bubble burst, the moment gone and with it any words he may have conjured up.

 

“Yes, oh. Maker you even speak like him. The man can freeze a Templar at a hundred paces but can't fucking say what he thinks. It’s all, ‘yes ma’am,’ or ‘no sir’ or Maker’s saggy ballsack even, ‘Oh yes, we can take care of that Serah, don’t worry.’” He pitches his voice with each quote, a comically low baritone that sits awkwardly in his theatrical musings and Petyr’s neck grows hot. “Too fucking self-sacrificing. He hates his job you know, can’t stand any of _this_.” Gold jewelry glitters in the torchlight as his waves his hand around a few times at the surrounding castle. “Doesn’t know how to run a court, or how to enjoy one.” A snort. A pause. “Too pure of a man.”

 

Dorian is still for a moment, observing the dew on the grass beneath him, kicking his leather boots through it. Petyr remains frozen, knees locked even as his hip groans and grumbles, his back itching to be cracked. The marks from Dorian’s lips still burned in the cool air, reminding him that all of this was actually happening. That Dorian was totally smashed and had just admitted his feelings for Petyr, who had been very much oblivious to his genuine flirtations (or too busy pitying not being his type), and wouldn’t remember this come morning.

 

So, he let himself be Petyr.

 

He coaxed Dorian back to a standing position, getting his arm over his shoulders and securing a hold on him around the other mage’s slender waist, and started walking. Dorian stumbled over nearly every step up the stairs, leaning heavily on the other man as they make their way to the open doors of the empty Great Hall. Steering him to the second staircase, as much as Dorian instinctively tried to move to the library, protesting loudly at being kept from his "very important" work. Petyr tried shushing him when they reached the row of doors, attempting to remember which one was Dorian’s while the other man commented on the stonework.

 

He felt out the glyphs that had Dorian’s signature on it, and dismantled them slowly, keeping one arm around his waist, _don’t want him falling over the balcony now that we’ve got him this far do we?_ When the door finally swung open he had to maneuver Dorian in first, making sure all his flailing limbs were tucked safely in the room before closing it behind him.

 

Dorian promptly fell on the bed once he let go and didn’t move, the only sign of him being alive being the rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Petyr shook his head at the sight and took stock of the space, shocked at how small and sparse it was. He expected gold and silk to be everywhere, but there were little to no personal possessions.

 

Three staves leaned against the opposite wall from the door by the tiny window, next to the bed and within arms reach should Dorian be attacked while sleeping. A small bundle of jewelry spilled out of an open bag on the dresser and a stack of books were piled neatly next to the bed. Aside from those little trinkets, the room was as bare as the others in the row, identical in every sense. Even the thin sheets Josephine had only meant to be a temporary solution, “for decoration” she said, were still in place. _I’ll get some thicker ones sent up, how he hasn’t frozen yet is a miracle_ , Petyr thought when he turned away from the gently snoring man in the bed.

 

He doesn’t let himself glance back when he closes the door behind him.

•••

Dorian wakes up with a splitting headache, a very large blank spot in his memory of the night before, and a rather large pile of decadent, thick, fur blankets sitting at the foot of his bed.

 •••

Petyr returned to his room just before dawn started darkening the glow of night on the snowy Hold. He had gone the long way back from Dorians room after placing blankets gently around him, letting the moon wash from him the events of the night.

 

Dorian was beautiful, but burning. Untouchable and dangerous and wild like the lightning he called so easily to his fingertips that were so freshly calloused.

 

He was so, _unlike_ the other man. Warm where Petyr was cold, blinding where Petyr was cloaked in shadow. He made Petyr feel like there was a sun inside of him ready to swallow him at any moment, teetering on the edge at all times between pure light and getting burned. Or maybe too much like him, both untouchable and perfect to a fault, practiced moves coming with such ease you'd miss it if you weren’t looking.

 

Petyr was always looking.

 

The fire was burning embers, the thick furs of his bed seeming cold instead of welcoming. The dried paint on his chest was flaking and itching, clinging too tight to his skin, but he didn’t scratch it off.

 

Instead he moved to his desk, reaching into the drawer to pull out a rolled cigar of elfroot and embrium, lighting the end of it with a flick of his fingers and taking a deep pull from it, letting the smoke swirl in his lungs before releasing it.

 

As he let the herbs relax his muscles and heal the scrapes on his back, he traced his fingers over the fading love-bites on his chest and neck, wishing Dorian would leave them again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> FUCK ok I updated this as of 5/2/17 with the ending because my life is collapsing, the lover i wrote about in the beginning notes fell apart and broke my heart basically the week after i posted this months ago but things are happening??? idk kiddos enjoy the ride


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